


check in (i wanna go right now)

by naegahosh



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Hong Kong, Inspired by Check In MV/Song, dedicated to the hip hop unit, my imagination ran wild with this mv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naegahosh/pseuds/naegahosh
Summary: Hansol writes a checklist.   Check in, Seoul City.Check in, Singapore City.Check in, Manila City.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi, this… is a result of inspiration driving you crazy and making you ignore priorities, such as the fic exchange you have yet to start writing…/sweats
> 
> this really just started off as a drabble that was 80% inspired by the mv, 10% inspired by [this edit](http://minghaou.tumblr.com/post/152567578102/i-check-inthats-my-city-yeah-i-check-in-hell), 5.5% inspired by the lyrics, and 4.5% by [minggu and the dog](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CwLmi1GUIAAWQQ4.jpg). there isn’t much parallel to the original meaning of ‘check in’ since i just focused on the Big Picture of hong kong, planes, the boys, etc.… i did borrow lyrics from the chorus and coups & wonu’s verses tho. also, i tried doing my research but there may be inaccuracies since i've never been to hong kong, sorry in advance! also unbeta-ed, what a messㅠ▽ㅠ  
> *special tip: clicking on [this edit](http://minghaou.tumblr.com/post/152567578102/i-check-inthats-my-city-yeah-i-check-in-hell) will help you understand/picture some scenes!
> 
> +) apparently i joined ao3 last year on oct. 30th? i was half-planning to post it sometime near my one year anniversary with dear ao3 but alas, i am the slowest writer to exist on this website. so here it is, days late. time flies quick when you’re stanning svt!!
> 
> happy reading!

“I don’t remember where I came from.”

Seungcheol’s hands halt abruptly, the flipper hanging just a few inches above a pan of golden brown pancakes. He looks over at Hansol, where the younger male’s sitting on the top bunk, tracing his forefinger over an old travel brochure. It’s turned soggy and fragile, having been left out on the windowsill overnight. No, not left out. _Misplaced_ , to be exact. Hansol wouldn’t have tucked it there if he’d known that Hong Kong’s November would begin with an autumn shower. He really prized his collection of travel brochures, and that window’s been leaking for as long as Seungcheol remembered.

The dispirited boy miscalculates the pressure he puts into the tip of his finger, and the damaged paper rips without as much as a hitch. The letter ‘S’ of Sydney crinkles into a mush of wet tissues, and Hansol lifts his chin.

“Do you?”

Seungcheol hesitates. Of course he does.

Hansol shifts in his seat and pulls up the checkered blanket to drape them over his shoulders. He looks at Seungcheol expectantly, dark hair disheveled and the right corner of his lip crusted with blood. Seungcheol doesn’t think Hansol could ever get rid of his habit of peeling his lips. He turns his attention back to the pan in front of him and stacks the pancakes onto a plate, one by one.

“Where you come from is not what’s important.” He pours maple syrup until there’s a honey-glistening lake brimming by the edges. He sticks a fork deep into the center and heads over to their bed, climbing up the first two rungs of the bed’s stairs. “It’s where you _want to go_ , that determines you.”

Hansol eagerly takes the plate, brushing the ruined brochure out of the way. The entire thing disintegrates into paper pulp.

“I have yet to decide though?” He says, stuffing pancakes into his mouth, and Seungcheol folds his arms to rest his chin and observe. When there’s food, Hansol is easily distracted. This one’s a toughie, though.

“It’s hard when you have, like, a hundred travel brochures telling you they’re the best place to be in the world, and you have to pick just one.” Hansol continues with a full mouth, syrup dripping down his chin. He pouts when Seungcheol slaps his hand away for trying to wipe it off with his blanket, but remains still when Seungcheol’s thumb swipes over his chin. Seungcheol gives him a glare for making his hand feel sticky. Taking a forkful of pancakes, Hansol stuffs it in the elder’s mouth.

“Do _you_ know where you want to go?” He uses the chance to ask. “Do you think Wonwoo and Mingyu hyung know where they want to end up?”

Seungcheol swallows. He answers lamely for the sake of answering him. “Maybe?”

To his confusion, Hansol deflates. “Wow. Okay.” He mutters under his breath. “Good to know everyone has plans while I’m just here, doomed to drown in this leaking house forever. Alone. Cold and starving.”

“Wait, what?” Seungcheol chuckles, moving up a rung and supporting himself on propped elbows. Despite the morning chill that’s wrapped around the metal to feel freezing against his skin, Seungcheol leans further in until Hansol has no space left to avoid his gaze. His chewing slows down, and Hansol starts playing around with a small piece of pancake as though it’s a ferry at Blake Pier, floating on maple syrup lake.

“I just realized that going to places means that we’ll be separated,” He mumbles. “No more Jenga nights, or basketball games, no more… us.”

Seungcheol releases a puff of laughter, and Hansol’s eyes flit towards him viciously.

“What?” He demands like a child, and in all seriousness, Seungcheol raises a brow.

“But you suck at Jenga and basketball.”

Hansol refuses to eat any more of his pancakes and pushes him down the stairs.

 

When Seungcheol sneaks a peek before the front door, Hansol is carefully organizing his precious brochures by continents.

“I’m heading out now, will be back after midnight.” He informs, cramming his feet inside his sneakers. “Tell Mingyu and Wonwoo to heat up pancakes if they get hungry.”

No response. Sometimes Hansol could be an actual baby.

Seungcheol opens the door, only to crash into it when the door hits something outside and gets stuck midway. The plastic window on the door rattles noisily with every shake of the handle, and Seungcheol struggles to poke his head out. It’s their drying rack, moved right before the entrance and under the drip edge of their roof—no doubt by Mingyu who probably wanted his clothes dry. It was also probably the only thing he _could_ do, in an alleyway that’s far too narrow to begin with. Along the path, haphazardly tossed around by the wind, are four plastic chairs and a table, the ground scattered with a deck of playing cards that the four messed around with just last night. Seungcheol wonders why the house was even constructed this way—did someone really think this was an ideal entrance for a home (no matter how crappy or leak-y the roof and windows) or did no one have the power to stop a third-rate commercial building from getting erected next to them?

The latter seemed more likely.

“Hansol? Can you come here and help me out for a sec, buddy?”

Once again, silence.

“Hansol—”

Seungcheol starts, when he gets cut off by Hansol’s voice, tense and a bit higher in tone than usual.

“Only if you let me tag along.”

“What? Yeah, okay, fine. Just don’t ask me to slip you fries every five minutes—”

“Not McDonalds, stupid.” There’s some shuffling, and Hansol steps into view. “If you let me tag along, wherever you’re planning to…” He pauses and clears his throat. “…go.”

Seungcheol crosses his arms. “And if it’s Singapore City?”

Hansol shrugs. “Sure.”

“Melbourne?”

“Sure.”

“Bangkok?”

“Sure.”

“So basically you’ll come with me, wherever it may be.”

“Yes.”

The corners of Seungcheol’s lips start to curl. “Why?”

“Why else? You’re practically my brother.” Hansol edges out with a scowl. His ears flush red and his knuckles start turning white, the brochures in his hands getting wrinkled in the process. He adds quickly, “Besides, you make one hell of a good pancake.”

Seungcheol thinks the younger male might combust if he goes on for a minute longer, so he points to the door.

“Yeah, sure, if it means you’ll help me open this dumb door.”

Hansol’s face lights up for a flickering moment, and he bounces forward to ram his shoulder against the door. After a few tries and some heaving pushes, the drying rack folds in half, tumbles to the ground, and the door flings wide open. Seungcheol shoves his hands inside his pockets for some change. He barely gathers enough for one wash.

“Here. Do it before Mingyu comes home. I gotta go.”

Hansol opens his mouth to complain, but Seungcheol cards his fingers through Hansol’s hair and ruffles his locks. “It’s either an hour at the Laundromat or an entire night of Mingyu’s nagging, Choi Hansol.”

“Did you just…?” Hansol’s eyes widen. Seungcheol’s really running late, so he gives him a tap on the shoulder before brushing past him. Hansol shouts loudly from behind, his husky voice cracking at the end of his elevated tone. “ _Choi_ Hansol?!”

“Yeah. I thought you were my brother, no?” Seungcheol turns around as he jogs backwards, and he sees Hansol standing blankly before breaking out into a huge grin.

“Cool last name, bro! Flows pretty well with my name too, I think!”

Choi Hansol. Seungcheol tries rolling the name off his tongue and agrees. When he reaches the mouth of the alley and steals a glimpse before the corner, Hansol’s still grinning.

 

-

 

Nights of Mong Kok are timeless, never asleep. Always flashy and buzzing, both in terms of the cheap neon lights and the speakers crackling of Hong Kong film soundtracks. Wonwoo kicks an empty soda can on the street, which rolls down the entrance stairs of a dim-lighted karaoke bar. He hears someone cussing loudly, and Wonwoo quickens his pace before someone can rush out to catch him. Snakes through pedestrians and slips into the nearest alleyway, inclined to curl his shoulders and warm his hands inside his pockets at the night chill that seeps through his clothes.

Zigzagging from alley to alley, Wonwoo quietly listens to the background noise getting fainter and fainter with every step. He enters a particularly dark passageway, stopping in his tracks when he hears footsteps close by. Wonwoo jerks around, all senses and nerves heightening. He’s unable to see anything in the dark, albeit the moonlight that reflects off the puddles on the ground. It rarely happens, but sometimes he can be overly sensitive to his own sounds. Wonwoo faces forward again, continuing down the narrow lane when this time, he hears a high-pitched whimper—clear as the deep, sheltered waters at Victoria Harbour. Before he could wheel around, someone throws an arm around his neck and Wonwoo almost reaches for his jackknife if it isn’t for the familiar scent of Mingyu’s spicy cologne.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you.” Wonwoo hisses, but Mingyu is too occupied by something moving—and holy shit, _alive_ —in his other arm to notice the loud pounding that almost rips through Wonwoo’s leather jacket.

“Look what I found.” He says excitedly under his breath, “A puppy!”

Wonwoo narrows his eyes. He fists around the collar of Mingyu’s shirt, dragging him under someone’s lighted window on the second floor. It’s a puppy alright. A very ugly, wrinkly one with bulging eyes.

“He looks like you.” Wonwoo comments flatly, getting slightly annoyed when Mingyu doesn’t spare a second to look up at him. Under the lights, his bleached hair practically illuminates their surroundings. Just for this, Wonwoo might actually convince him to get it dyed orange.

Mingyu coos at the ugly thing instead.

“I _know_ ,” He sighs happily, “and that’s why I named him Mingmoongie.”

Wonwoo scowls and starts walking again. “I’m going to fucking murder you if that thing takes a piss on our bed.”

“It’s okay. He doesn’t mean it.” Mingyu follows closely behind, whispering to the dog as if Wonwoo can’t hear him. “He’s been saying that for years since the day I pickpocketed him in Seoul.”

Wonwoo feels his left brow twitch in irritation. “One day. One day, Kim Mingyu. I _will_ murder you.”

Mingyu speeds up, ducking to nudge his elbow into Wonwoo’s rib and smiling until his two canines poke out. “Looking forward to it, hyung.”

Before Wonwoo can respond, Mingyu flicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and starts making clicking noises at the dog. Wonwoo gapes in horror, the sight in front of him refusing to settle with him—Mingyu, the gigantic, indecipherable, untamed _Kim Mingyu_ , trying so hard to woo this tiny animal.

“It’s a dog, not a cat, moron.” Wonwoo snaps, and it takes about five seconds for him to realize that it actually worked in silencing him. He turns around when he feels a lack of presence over his shoulder, and Wonwoo finds the younger male standing two feet behind him with this annoying smile stitched onto his mouth. Wonwoo cocks a brow and Mingyu starts snickering, resuming to click his tongue.

Except this time, it’s directed at _him_.

“Here, kitty kitty,” He hums, “Don’t get jealous now.”

The dog jumps out of Mingyu’s embrace as Wonwoo tackles him to the ground. He lifts his right arm, studded fist glistening under the moonlight, and he seriously contemplates on hammering it down on Mingyu’s stupid face when he—Wonwoo seethes at this—giggles. He’s interrupted though, when a window opens overhead to be followed by a string of angry Cantonese.

“What she say?” Wonwoo releases the hook of Mingyu’s shirt and looks up, trying to locate where it’s coming from. Pushing Wonwoo off his chest and sitting up, Mingyu wipes his dirty hands on his jeans. He opens both palms next to his mouth, yelling towards the sky in broken Cantonese.

“Okay, we will!” He waves cheerily, “Thank you!”

He lowers his chin and grins. “She wants us to shut up and go to hell.”

Wonwoo laughs, hefty air that’s been trapped for some time finally leaving his confined lungs. It feels like he’s set fire to the cloud of stuffy air over his head, as though he’s been… healed, from the day’s fatigue. Wonwoo holds out a hand for Mingyu to grab.

“Nice.” He smirks as he pulls Mingyu up, mentally noting to add ‘hell’ onto Hansol’s checklist under Manila.

“I’ll race you there.” Mingyu skips ahead, spinning around as though he could beat Wonwoo running backwards. “To hell.”

Wonwoo flips him the finger. “You’ll lose. You love life too much.”

Mingyu grins in affirmation. Mingmoongie follows them all the way home.

 

-

 

“There, I spot another one.”

Hansol points to the sky. He lifts his head and unintentionally lies back down hard on Seungcheol’s flat abdomen, causing the oldest male to grunt. Wonwoo peeks an eye open to see a small airplane flying across, a tail of clouds sketching a diameter over the circular opening of the apartment ceiling. Layers of rings upon rings dilate his pupils—the endless circles so spellbinding that Wonwoo closes his eyes again. It makes him feel like he’s going to get sucked up into the sky.

“What does flying feel like?” Hansol asks, spinning their basketball on his chest.

It’s quiet for a few seconds until Mingyu hums, pretending to think. Wonwoo feels his head reverberate against Mingyu’s stomach, the low drone giving him fuzzy tickles. He lifts his hand and lazily slaps whichever part of Mingyu he can reach, making him stop.

“I think it felt like I was floating in the middle of the sea.” Wonwoo says sleepily. “Light, loose, and free, but absolutely terrifying.”

Seungcheol chuckles. “I felt sad.”

“Sad?” Mingyu sits up, taking up half of Wonwoo’s view and making his head slide down to his thighs.

“Oh my god, hyung!” Hansol cries, covering his eyes with both hands and peeping between his finger cracks. “Your hair is actually lethal under the sun, it’s going to blind me.”

Seungcheol groans, draping his arm over his eyes. “Get back down, Cheesepuff, Hansol’s not kidding.”

Mingyu juts his lips out in protest, lying back down nonetheless. “Is it that bad?” Wonwoo can practically hear his pout. “I knew I shouldn’t have bought the cheapest dye.”

“Ugh, it makes me crave Cheetos, hyung.”

He loves that Hansol can be brutally honest. Wonwoo closes his eyes, trying not to laugh. He feels something cold and solid under his head in place of Mingyu’s comfortable thigh, and it easily makes his head roll side to side—it’s probably Mingyu’s skateboard.

“You know how you lost rock paper scissors and were supposed to get us ice cream earlier?” Seungcheol starts, and both Wonwoo and Hansol start snickering.

“Yeah?”

“We planned that so we could ditch you—until you came back too early ‘cause the place closed down.”

“Hyu- _ung!_ ” Mingyu whines, scrambling up again.

Seungcheol laughs innocently and points to Wonwoo. “He suggested it.”

Wonwoo, who had his eyes half-open, quickly shuts it tight, but not before he sees a sharp flick of Mingyu’s head as he glares him down.

“What the hell, hyung.” Mingyu’s voice brims with betrayal. “You can’t do this to me when _you_ made me do this _._ ”

Wonwoo wants to tell him that it looks like tiny, invisible people are either having a huge campfire or a fire sacrifice—his choice—on top of his head, but he refrains on doing so and just reaches out to rub Mingyu’s short, yellow-orange locks between his fingers.

“So,” Ignoring the expression that Mingyu has lately acquired from Mingmoongie, Wonwoo shakes his leg to address Seungcheol. “how did the plane ride make you sad?”

Mingyu tries to brush off Wonwoo’s arm to make it obvious that topic change won’t alter his offended mood, but doesn’t bother to try again when Wonwoo keeps playing around with his hair. He crisscrosses his legs to sit more comfortably and steals the basketball away from Hansol instead.

“I don’t know.” Seungcheol says, eyes still covered under his arm. “I guess I never had the chance ‘til then to know how small and insignificant I was.”

Up above, a few birds fly across the open ceiling. Seungcheol’s arm slides down to reveal his eyes, and he stretches it out to cover one of the birds with his thumb. His eyebrows scrunch together, shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

“The plane looks so small from down here, yet it’s filled with hundreds of people. People who look tinier than ants from up there.” Seungcheol’s hand falls back to his side. “I’ve been a mere speck of dust in this world, you know?”

There’s a pause of silence, until Hansol whispers, “I wish I really was a speck of dust.”

He’s barely audible, but they all hear it.

“Maybe then I can float out of here.”

Wonwoo lets his eyelids fall.

 

-

 

“What do you want to do, if one day we wake up rich? Had a private jet?”

“Kid, you really got to stop asking stupid questions.” Mingyu says dryly, trying to balance Queen of Hearts on the second story of his house of cards. He rocks back and forth in concentration, the two legs of his plastic chair tilted on edge. Out of his peripherals, Mingyu sees Hansol giving him a look, but he pretends not to see it until Hansol’s arm sweeps through his precious castle and the cards tragically collapse onto the table.

“Fuck?” Mingyu blinks, and Hansol turns his attention back to the diary in front of him.

“We’ll see how stupid you find the list if I ever get to check one off.”

Seungcheol grimaces as Mingyu removes an Eight of Spades that’s landed on his slice of pizza, preparing to start over. Wonwoo throws his last missile onto the dartboard, twirling his lollipop in satisfaction when it lands right in the center of the circle. He cranes his neck over Hansol’s shoulder.

“New York.” Wonwoo offers. “I’ve always wanted to go to Times Square.”

Reaching for the pencil fixed over his right ear, Hansol quickly writes it down.

“Check in… New York City.”

“Tokyo?” Seungcheol pipes up, pushing away his half-eaten slice of pizza. “I’m sick of cold pizza and instant ramen.”

Hansol lights up. “Check in… Tokyo City.”

“It’s just Tokyo, you don’t have to add city at the end of every city.” Mingyu rolls his eyes. Hansol ignores him.

“Check it out. When I grow up and make enough money, I’m going to take my jet to have brunch in New York, fly over to have un-plastic-sealed ramen in Tokyo, and— ah, where should I go for dinner?” Hansol taps his chin in thought. “Oh, I’m going to have barbeque. Korean barbeque in Seoul.” He finishes in delight, recording each word carefully. “Check in… Seoul City.”

“Seoul?” Mingyu scoffs. He can’t tell why his entire body is itching with irritation.

He’s lying. Mingyu knows. It’s the naivety. His blissful ignorance. It’s Hansol’s unwavering belief that the world is good and beautiful, the photoshopped skyscrapers in his brochures deluding him into thinking that he can one day handpick a star and sleep on a cloud. It’s so humorously vulnerable, prone to every type of scarring and bruising the moment he steps out of Hong Kong. Sometimes, Mingyu’s twisted mind urges him to be the first one to scratch that clean, unstained surface.

“Wake up, Hansol.” Mingyu knocks over his line of triangular trusses, sending half the cards to flutter to the ground. “We’ve been discarded and forgotten. There’s no one there to welcome you back in Seoul.”

He feels the rest of them turning their heads to pin him with their gazes. It’s quiet for a dead second, until Hansol tosses the diary onto the table.

“You know,” Hansol says, standing up. He sounds more tired than angry. “You don’t always have to be an ass.”

He walks out, picking up Mingmoongie on the way when the puppy rubs his head against his legs.

Traitor. Muttering under his breath, Mingyu roughly runs his hand through his coarse, orange locks. Wonwoo shakes his head, mumbling something about him being an idiot as he goes to retrieve his darts.

“Is that what you think?” Seungcheol speaks up, reaching for Hansol’s diary. He flips a few pages. “That Seoul abandoned us?”

“I—” Mingyu starts angrily, then unable to find the right words, he breathes out and kicks his side of the table. “I don’t know, okay? I didn’t have anything or anyone there. Seoul never gave me anything.” He gushes out, fully aware that he’s yelling. “But here, I have a place to be. _This_ is my place. Our home.”

Wonwoo begins to throw darts again and Seungcheol doesn’t even flinch. Mingyu wishes he could hate them.

“Home is anywhere you make it to be.” Seungcheol picks up the pencil that’s wedged between the pages, flattening out the rumpled page. “Daegu is my home, I was born there. Seoul is my home, I grew up there. Hong Kong is my home, but so will be Auckland in ten years, because coffee and street art sounds like my type of thing.”

He looks up at Mingyu and shrugs.

“They never offered to be my home, I made it mine.”

Chuckling when Mingyu doesn’t say anything, Seungcheol continues to flip through Hansol’s seemingly endless list.

“And Hansol… he just wants to make the world his home.”

 

When Mingyu steps outside, Hansol is playing with Mingmoongie, crouched under a yellow light bulb that hangs precariously by a string. It’s chilly, despite the sky being mauve than dark blue, and Mingyu throws him a sweater. Hansol takes it and puts it on, refusing to look at him all the while.

“Hey,” Mingyu clears his throat, gently kicking Hansol’s bare foot under Seungcheol’s rubber slippers.

Still no answer.

“Look, I have your dumb diary.” He tries again, and Hansol finally looks up. He frowns immediately.

“Ugh, can you sit down or something? I’m literally going to go blind.”

Mingyu complies, hand sweeping over his nose in embarrassment. He takes a seat next to Hansol, who rubs Mingmoongie’s belly effusively. Mingyu holds the small notebook out, his exposed wrists feeling cold when Hansol doesn’t take it.

“Do you know how to make paper airplanes?”

There’s a small crease between Hansol’s eyes when he stares at him in confusion.

“Yeah.” He says brusquely and turns back towards Mingmoongie. “No.” He says again after a few seconds.

“I’ll show you.” Mingyu flips the diary open to its last page and rips out a blank page. He hands it over to Hansol, whose fingers leave the wrinkles of the dozing dog to receive it doubtfully.

“Fold it in half.” Mingyu instructs, using his lap for flat surface. “Then open it up, and fold these two sides until they meet the center crease.”

Hansol quietly does as he’s told, and his first paper airplane comes out disastrously. Nose dives two inches from Hansol’s feet, almost crashing into Mingmoongie’s face. He insists on making five more though, and by the time he perfects the art of origami planes, Mingyu gives him the last page of his list that stops under Seoul City.

“Here. Make your best paper plane yet, and let’s go fly it on the lake pier.” Mingyu tells him. “Like a test ride. To Seoul.”

He sighs when Hansol just stares at the scribbled paper.

“You might not have anyone back over there, but hey.”

Mingyu places a hand on the other boy’s head.

“At least you won’t be alone.” He grins. “I’ll be there with you.”

After a moment of brief silence, Hansol snorts. “Is this your way of saying sorry?”

Mingyu smirks, giving his head a light push. “No, brat. It’s my way of saying let’s go fly paper airplanes.”

“Fine.” Hansol smiles, taking the paper from Mingyu’s hand and folding the corners like an expert. “Since you’re so sorry, let’s go fly paper airplanes.”

 

“Hey, you guys wanna come with?”

Mingyu bursts in through the door, hands full of paper planes. “We’re heading over to Star Ferry Pier to fly some paper airplanes.”

Wonwoo’s brows soar so high they almost meet his hairline, but the good thing about him is that he doesn’t bother to ask questions. He stalks right out the door, and Mingyu hears him making fun of Hansol’s first few catastrophic crumples of paper, shoved to the side into a pile.

“Paper planes?” Seungcheol asks with a hint of amusement, grabbing the skateboard by the threshold and violently trapping Mingyu’s head under his arm. Mingyu chokes and barely frees himself from Seungcheol’s herculean grasp.

“What you said, hyung, about home?” He coughs, and Seungcheol waits for him to continue. Mingyu straightens, skimming through possible words inside his head and resorting to a curt nod. “I get it.”

Seungcheol grins and heads out the door. Mingyu follows.

Home isn’t a place, but it’s Seungcheol. It’s Wonwoo and Hansol, and home can’t be defined by some borders or boundaries, or roofs and brick walls.

 _They_ are home, and Mingyu will always be home. As long as he’ll be with them.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from hansol’s pov (and his part in the song ofc), even tho this story has all except his (pov). i thought it was really interesting how coups, wonu, and mingyu’s teasers were all dark/grey and filmed outside, while hansol’s had some colour, and he was lying down somewhere indoors, surrounded by flowers. it felt very innocent compared to the other three, and i think i really tried to use that here. 
> 
> ‘check in’ may have been my favourite seventeen mv until i wrote this and ruined it for myselfㅠ_ㅠ. hope it didn’t come off as too corny for you guys and thank you for reading this plotless & pointless piece of writing;; i appreciate any kind of comments or feedback very very much ♡♡


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